


Oops, Missed A Spot!

by WeirdAlterEgo



Series: The Reverse Bang [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sex Pollen, Top Tim Drake, also let's pretend Dami is over 16, technically there was consent, unbetaed hot mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:41:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27829915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeirdAlterEgo/pseuds/WeirdAlterEgo
Summary: He rolls himself back to the batcomputer and leans over the console, wanting just ten seconds of shut-eye. He opens them back up after two in blind panic, because he realizeshe never checked up on Damian. Shit.How fucking sloppy of him. He even thought of the kid barricading himself in his bedroom, butnever checked. Tim grabs a chunk of his hair with one hand and turns the batcomputer on with the other.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Damian Wayne
Series: The Reverse Bang [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2036875
Comments: 8
Kudos: 184





	Oops, Missed A Spot!

**Author's Note:**

> So... this is the alternate ending...
> 
> I was under the impression that there was around 3 years between Tim and Damian, and Tim is university age when he fake-dies at the hand of a thousand drones so...
> 
> ...I'll let you lot decide what age Damian is, but as far as I'm concerned he is 16, and just still a bit small, taking after Talia in stature.

He rolls himself back to the batcomputer and leans over the console, wanting just ten seconds of shut-eye. He opens them back up after two in blind panic, because he realizes _he never checked up on Damian_. Shit.

How fucking sloppy of him. He even thought of the kid barricading himself in his bedroom, but _never checked_. Tim grabs a chunk of his hair with one hand and turns the batcomputer on with the other.

He prays that Robin's just away with the Titans or off on a sleepover with Jon, or... honestly _anywhere else but here_ as he zooms in on the tracker. The batcomputer ponders life, the universe and everything for a few agonizing seconds that Tim spends going prematurely grey, before...

The little red dot pings right inside the Manor, two floors up.

"Fuck," he groans.

He leans over to grab his pants and pulls them on, stepping back into his boots without tying anything, vaguely confident he can do the short walk to and from the hidden elevator without faceplanting even in his tired state. He grabs wipes, a few condoms, lube and the little blue bottle and stuffs them into his side-pouch (not a fanny pack, thank you) before he stands.

He gives a short, cursory look back at the three, wrung-out men laid out on the gurneys and turns away, making his brisk (and limping) way towards the hidden elevator shaft. He signals it and presses the intercom for Alfred.

"The cave is safe, but we might have a problem. I'm going up to check on Damian."

"Thank you, Master Timothy," he hears Alfred say, and there is a world of meaning in there. "I'll take care of things in the cave."

"Thank you, Alfred," he says gently as he disconnects the call before he starts laughing hysterically. Nobody needs to hear him lose it, especially not poor Alfred. Tim will deal with this once Robin is also secure in the time-honed bat tradition: _pretend it never happened_.

He gets into the elevator and considers the little blue bottle. It's still half-full, so it should be more than enough, should Damian require Tim's _services_... though Tim isn't sure he should. There is a fair chance he never was with Bruce and the others, he might be quietly sleeping, unaware of anything happening down below... But worst of all... Tim isn't even sure Damian is old enough for this sort of thing...

How old is the little brat again?

He does a count and comes up with... huh. Old enough. At least that'll be one thing off Tim's shoulders should he end up having to defile Bruce's one and only hellspawn.

He exits the elevator and limps towards the closed door, hoping really hard the kid didn't lock it, because Tim's shaking from exertion, and doesn't feel like breaking in. He leans against the door for a minute, forehead rolling on the cool lacquered dark wood, summoning all of his resolve to grasp the handle and press down on it.

The door opens.

It's dark inside, hot, and humid. The light from the hallway spills over the green carpet, the huge, ornately carved bed, and the squirming, naked boy on top of it. Tim can hear the soft, whiny little grunts, and barely make out the hand between the boy's spread legs, fingers fucking inside...

Tim sighs, gives himself a moment to feel defeated before he pulls himself back in on a breath and marches inside, closing and locking the door. It wouldn't do anybody any good if Alfred or one of the 3 men walked in on them when Damian is still vulnerable. They'd never survive the teenager's ire.

He's also sure turning on the lamps wouldn't make Damian comfortable. Not during a time like this. Tim doesn't know whether Damian has had any sexual experience so far, but this had been thrust upon them both. Tim remembers being a teenager with a lot of clarity, being shy about his body... surely even Damian would feel self-conscious, if he could.

He walks to the huge window and draws apart the drapes, letting the moonlight and the bright neon lights of Gotham filter in. It's just enough to see by, but definitely not as bright as the lamps overhead. He turns around and looks at the boy, who barely pays him any mind, his face scrunched up and red as he tries to stuff his fingers up inside himself.

Tim feels himself growing hard at the sight, against all odds.

He walks to the bed, sits down next to the naked boy, smoothing a hand on Damian's shoulder, feeling the heat of his skin. He's burning up. That's... yeah that's _bad_. Tim has no choice, no matter what the hellspawn says then.

"Damian?" he prompts the boy anyway, voice gentle. "Are you in there? Can you... can you talk?" he pokes a cheek gently, hoping for any sort of reaction. "Please... I don't want to hurt you, baby bat, but I have to help you. Please tell me you understand."

The face turns towards him, eyes unfocused and pupils blown wide. "Drake. I need..." he trails off in a moan as his head falls back. Tim looks down to see he has managed to insert four of his fingers up his hole. Without lube.

He explodes in a flurry of motion. He kicks off his boots and begins peeling his pants off while he shakes the contents of his pouch onto the bedside table, cursing softly as the lube rolls and falls off, so he has to waste precious seconds to hunt for it.

He comes face to face with a veritable arsenal of swords and knives under the gremlin's bed. That's... he thinks Bruce has no idea, nor does Alfred. But it explains how the kid keeps pulling out more and more swords even though they all get confiscated at some point or another. And then he thinks better of mentioning it now and jumps on the bed before he can be distracted again.

"Did you have a shower, baby bat?" he asks, for he assumed from the discarded bathrobe that the kid had the mental capacity to remove any pollen still on his skin, but...

"Yes!" Damian moans, and Tim snags him that instant, pulling the boy into his arms, cuddling him close while he uncaps the lube and squirts a generous portion on his fingers.

He doesn't spend time on warming it up, just tugs the boy's fingers loose with his other hand, accepts the pissed off screech as his due before he pushes two of his own fingers up instead. Damian moans and sobs as Tim starts rubbing and scissoring around until he can push a third finger in, and then it is just a matter of seconds before he has the boy's prostate under his fingertips and rubs it, rubs it mercilessly until the kid comes with a wail that would get the cops called on them by neighbours in Gotham proper.

The little gremlin nuzzles into the side of Tim's neck affectionately, which is... something Tim never expected to feel in his entire life, but it feels good, it really does. Tim pulls himself up against the headboard, arranges the squirming boy so his legs are thrown across Tim's, body curling against Tim's chest.

This way he can see the minute Damian starts rising again.

He debates whether he should just use his fingers. On one hand, it'd guarantee none of his family members could accuse him of despoiling their littlest brother, on the other hand, Tim is tired. He is too tired, and fucking Damian would be easier, and smoother experience, for both of them.

He tries asking again. He tilts the boy's face up with a gentle hand under his chin, looks him in his glazed eyes. "Damian? Can I use more than my fingers?"

Damian smirks. The next second Tim has a forearm against his esophagus while the kid turns, kneels over him, and with a move that'll haunt Tim's spank bank for _all eternity,_ grabs Tim's erection and guides it inside his slick hole. He sinks down, still holding Tim immobile, and Tim can only choke and whine until Damian withdraws so he can brace himself against Tim's pectorals.

"Condom!" Tim chokes out, but it's too late, Damian is already bouncing up and down on him in a blur, and Tim is just... he's gone. He roots around on the bed for the little blue bottle and takes a sip, feels as it burns its way down, makes his limbs loose, his mind... calm.

He caps the bottle and sets it down carefully onto Damian's bedside table. Then he turns back to the bouncing boy, marvels at the open lips, the sweaty hair flopping into the brat's eyes as he rides Tim. He grabs the muscled hips and yanks Damian down on his dick fully, smiles at the throaty groan, smirks as he feels the kid spurt against his stomach, holds the startled green eyes until they close in pleasure.

He lets Damian rest, even though he is still hard up inside him, spends the time rubbing the boy's back, his muscular ass. Just looks at the boy, who is in fact a teen with _very_ well defined muscles. Tim strokes over his shivering stomach as he mulls over the fact that Damian looks more lithe like his mother and less like his father, even though his future versions Tim's met all look more like Bruce. Tim wonders if he would have felt more comfortable fucking a hulking, bulky Damian, who looked more like Jason at his age, then shrugs it all off.

Fucking Damian at any age would feel weird, given all the bad blood between them.

He smooths the brat's sweaty hair back, kisses his forehead, because Tim likes giving affection, and now that Damian can't headbutt him for it, he is ready to dole it out at every turn. And because Tim feels like giving it. He curls his arms around Damian, cuddling his warm body to his chest until the needy brat starts squirming again, rocking back and forth, impaled on Tim's length.

He lets go, lets his tired hands drop to the bed and watches in awe as Damian rides him, hands grabbing Tim's shoulders and using him as leverage to ride him with abandon. His skin is painted gray in the moonlight, the sweat dripping from his temples glistening as he throws his head back, long neck an invitation, a trap only a fool would take.

But it seems like Tim is a fool tonight, for he surges up and kisses down on the boy's neck, biting and sucking and not giving a single shit what his... their family will say tomorrow as he licks and sucks until Damian is a weeping, wailing mess and comes on Tim, _with_ Tim, because Tim is spurting into Damian as his orgasm sneaks up on him, and he pulls the boy's hips down hard until the aftershocks pass.

He flops against the headboard, Damian a boneless dead weight against him, and he is just _gone_. He closes his eyes and hopes nobody wakes him again for _years_.

He wakes to Damian bouncing on him, apparently having found Tim hard and just... going with it. Tim's a little miffed, and really tired, but it's not like he doesn't have a duty to the damn brat, so he manfully grabs the kid's hips and yanks him down harder, making him moan and keen.

Tim smirks as he rolls his hips, until his hips chime back that they'd rather he stopped abusing his poor body parts, thanks very much. So Tim (still in pain, with a spoiled brat using him as an inflatable sex doll) decides to use the trusty tried and working method of a sneaky finger in the hole.

He roots around for the lube, slicks his index finger up and rubs a trail down Damian's crack until he can stroke his anus and enjoys as it flutters, as Damian's rhythm falters. Tim smiles at him encouragingly, waits until the kid starts bouncing again, until his fingers are ignored. And then, on the next downward thrust he starts working his index finger in.

Damian stops. His mouth opens on a silent moan, his eyes stare at Tim in pure wonder as Tim's finger slides in and starts rubbing against his prostate. Tim tries to gauge his reaction if there is any pain, but isn't sure with the pollen affecting the boy.

"Does it hurt?" he asks instead.

Damian shakes his head, gulps in a few breaths before he opens his mouth and sound comes out. "Just full, Drake." He whimpers as he starts moving experimentally, slowly sliding back up, with Tim's hand against his cheek, finger still up inside Damian along with Tim's cock, rubbing that little bundle of nerves. "Drake..." he moans, and Tim hopes it means it's good, that he should go on because he does, and the next moment the boy comes and comes and comes, head thrown back and screeching like a banshee.

Tim is still hard inside the boy, who is listing towards left, boneless and breathing evenly. Tim hopes he finally managed to knock him out, because he has no energy left. Just the thought of having to extend energy to take care of his own erection makes him weep and wish Damian was still bouncing on him, clenching down on Tim's cock so sweetly.

He turns instead, pulling out of the boy and arranging him, laying on his side with Tim behind him, and pushes back up into Damian's sloppy hole. He thinks about one last round, of slowly fucking Damian through the last of his side-effects, but sleep takes him before he can actually do anything.

***

Weak light is shining through the window right into Tim's tired face, while his hard cock is in the softest, warmest place he can imagine. He cuddles close to the person he's in bed with and gives a roll of his hips.

Pain explodes in every part of his body, the pure agony radiating from his hips make him whimper and sob, while the body in his arms squirms until the heat clenches down around him, milking his cock with short thrusts until Tim comes with a relieved groan, nuzzling into the warm neck in front of him.

He falls asleep again with a lot of help from the blessed endorphins.

***

"Wake up," he hears from somewhere above and to the side. He pulls his pillow over his face and groans. It's snatched out of his hands the next second. "Drake. Wake up, or I'll carry you."

Tim squints, snaps up another pillow and covers his head again.

He's tired. Bone tired, like he fought off Scarecrow gas or Joker venom. He's _tired_. The gremlin can piss off.

He yelps when he is yanked halfway out of the bed by his ankles, wrangled into submission by strong arms, pulled into a _princess carry_ of all things, and marched off into... Damian's en-suite bathroom.

The bathtub is filled with hot water and something that smells like rosemary and citrus, and he is not dunked, but gently deposited before Damian also gets in from the other side.

Tim stares at Damian in open-mouthed wonder. Damian stares back at him in turn, before he looks away and blushes to the roots of his hair. He shoos a heap of bubbles away from his arms with great attention. His neck looks absolutely _mauled_.

 _Tim_ did that.

"What are you staring at, Drake?"

Tim clears his throat, trying to buy some time. He's not sure what to say. He hasn't really thought this far ahead. Last night was a little... crowded.

"Are you feeling all right?" he ends up asking.

"Yes, thank you," Damian says haughtily, blushing from the tips of his ears to his navel. "Have you regained the full extent of your mental capacities yet?"

Tim thinks... he is pretty sure the brat is trying to be polite, and not picking a fight, but with Damian, nobody can be sure. "I believe so. Thank you for... asking. And the bath."

"We were filthy."

Tim looks back at Damian, who is staring back at Tim through his lashes, still without his trademark frown or smirk. This is off-putting and yet strangely endearing. Tim thinks he has never seen the brat like this, ever.

'That we were," he agrees. "It was pretty hot though."

"Drake!" the brat yelps before he dives down, only his flinty eyes flash at Tim as he tries to hide the peculiar shade of vermilion he is sporting.

Tim sighs. Maybe he's bad for teasing the kid, but he thinks they have gotten just that little bit closer, thanks to the previous night's activities.

"You could call me Tim, you know. Now that we..." he flops his hand out of the water, doesn't know how to encompass all that they did, plunges it back.

Damian's head disappears under the water. Tim watches idly as the water ripples with whatever Damian does under there, before the kid comes back up and slicks his hair back.

"Could you pass the shampoo, Timothy?" he asks, and Tim automatically passes him the bottle, smile incandescent when his brain catches on.

"Could you please do my back after?" Tim asks hesitantly. "My back and hips hurt and I don't think I can move much... if at all."

"Of course."

He watches as Damian lathers his hair, then dunks it under the water, until he looks at Tim expectantly. Tim turns around, mindful of his aches, expecting a short rubdown, but gets hesitant hands gently rubbing his sore muscles with more of the rosemary-scented bath gel thing instead. It feels heavenly, and it feels even better as Damian wets his hair and shampoos it too, using the showerhead to rinse off the suds.

He's even more surprised when Damian gets out and helps him out without having to ask him first, bundles Tim into one of his fluffy towels, before he ties one around himself, and then Tim is picked up again and carried out to be deposited onto a recently made bed.

Alfred. They _all_ know. _Shit_.

"Will you let me massage your back, Timothy?"

Tim stares up at Damian, who looks serious enough. Tim thinks he should get out, out of the teenager's room to face Bruce's... Dick's... oh fucking hell, _Jason's_ wrath, but he hurts, and Damian is being _nice_ to him for the first time in his life.

"Please," he asks quietly and smiles up at the boy.

He lets Damian push him back and turn him around. He swallows as he sees Damian's towel slipping to the floor. He can't even twitch as he feels the naked teen swinging his leg over him, as he sits down on Tim's thighs and leans over, laying two hot, slippery hands against his trapezius muscles. He moans softly as calloused, sadistic little fingers dig into his muscles and turn him into silly putty.

The men downstairs can wait.

Tim's reaping his well-deserved rewards.


End file.
